


Eyes I Dare Not Meet In Dreams

by storm_of_sharp_things



Series: Here Beside You and Me [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, I promise, M/M, Nobody is Dead, T.S. Eliot - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 01:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19713280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_sharp_things/pseuds/storm_of_sharp_things
Summary: Arthur thinks Eames is dead and goes to Toronto (as one does).The title is from TS Eliot’s poem “The Hollow Men” and if you ever need imagery, I can imagine few better descriptions of Limbo than this entire freaking poem. (Limbo does not appear in this story, however.)





	Eyes I Dare Not Meet In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Been devouring Inception fic for months and ran across a mention of a prompt for making out in the rain. Et voilà, a scenario sprang full-grown into my head and demanded to be written. So, late indeed to the game though I am, here is a love song with a happy ending to Eames from Arthur, posted in gratitude to all those writers who have trod this path before me, leaving their words and stories to lighten some of my dark hours. 
> 
> And oh so many thanks also go to my darling sister, who first infected me with fanfic and then kicked my ass (but not my buttocks, yeah?) until I started writing some of my own.

Arthur was on the fortieth floor of a downtown Toronto hotel, leaning against the plate glass window wall, looking down into the wet busy streets below, and thinking about falling.

He'd fallen, or jumped, or been thrown out of, or off of, so many buildings while dreaming; he wondered idly how it differed from reality. Getting shot in dreams certainly hurt like hell, but it was still very subtly different from real gunshot wounds, nearly impossible to tell at the moment, but obvious enough upon waking. Same with getting stabbed. He couldn't really say whether drowning was similar. Suffocation, at least in the early stages, seemed closer. Perhaps there was more disbelief involved in being wounded in reality; certainly he'd died enough in dreams.

He pressed his forehead and palms to the thick glass, ignoring the streaks of rain pouring down it, trying to focus on the people below. Lots of pedestrians with umbrellas, but a surprising number were simply dashing through the rain from cover to cover, or else treading stoically straight through the puddles, hunched into raincoats and hats like offended herons stalking through a shallow pond. It almost made him want to laugh. Eames had… _no_.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut tightly and completely failed to suppress the memory of Eames striding through the rain in Paris with him, no umbrella, no coat, no hat, soaked and grinning at Arthur, shoving his fingers through his own wet hair to push it away from his face before reaching out to do the same for Arthur.

Arthur’s fingers clenched against the cold glass. _Stop it_.

Eames, standing in the ruins in Thailand, monsoon rains beating down on him while lightning flashed over and over, arms outstretched and head arched back, linen shirt plastered to his skin as he laughed maniacally at the sky.

Eames grinning at him in the middle of a Seattle sidewalk while Arthur waited under an awning. “But it's such a _light_ rain, pet! You'll barely even get wet! Well, from _this_ , anyway.”

Eames had... _Stop it. Now._

Eames in hot climates had been like a cat with a sunbeam; he’d loved the sun, had turned golden and warm, lounging and stretching, all lazy smiles and raised eyebrows.

In the cold, Eames had always been cheerful, bundled up and grinning, eager to huddle for warmth, affectionately tactile as he'd tuck Arthur into his coat with him, surreptitiously fondling him in public places while he beamed shamelessly at people around them.

_Stop!_

But in the rain, Eames had come alive with an almost childlike glee, stomping in puddles, licking raindrops off his lips, refusing an umbrella even in the most dire of cases.

Eames would show up on the doorstep, soaked and shivering, still grinning like an idiot, to bounce inside and start stripping, gathering wet clothes in a dripping ball as he strode toward the bathroom. Arthur had never been able to do anything but chase him down with towels, struggling not to laugh as Eames mock-fought him off like a happily soaked puppy.

Arthur fiercely strangled the noise in his throat that was trying to escape, clenching his jaw and holding his breath to ride out the tightness in his chest.

 _Eames_.

He slid to his knees, forehead still pressed to the glass, and pushed his hand into his pocket to wrap around the poker chip there.

Years ago, they'd talked about the dangers of a relationship in dreamshare, after the fourth or fifth job together, after they'd fucked the third or fourth time. After they'd lain in that narrow bed in Kiev with the blizzard raging outside and caught their breath, pressed warm and sweaty against each other. 

“I won't be used against you,” Eames had told him seriously, so close his lips had brushed Arthur's temple as he spoke. “It's not safe for either of us if it becomes known.”

Arthur had nodded, frowning. They were both ex-military, had both been in certain special forces of their countries, knew the dangers of having hostages to fate. “It won't be an easy relationship, keeping it secret.”

He'd felt Eames smile before a light kiss was pressed to his hairline. “But oh how worth it, darling, however snatched between toilsome hours our moments must be.”

And they'd had so many snatched moments, as well as long stretches when one or the other had been forced to drop out of sight.

After one six-month period when Arthur had been forced into hiding, Eames had suggested the deadman switch. “Not to stop a train, petal,” he'd laughed when Arthur had raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. He'd smiled, then sobered a little, reaching out a hand to cup Arthur's jaw. “I've a little something, neatly packaged, set to mail to you if I don't reset the instructions within a certain timeframe. So at least you'll _know_ if…”

“Stop it,” Arthur had said, glaring at him.

Eames had given him a rueful look, then glanced away to stroke his hand down Arthur's ribs, trailing his fingertips lightly over the long fresh scar just below the last rib. Arthur had shivered as the nerves there cross-fired, mixing pleasure with pain and bringing back flashes of shouted questions and knives.

Eames had murmured apologetically and pulled Arthur on top of him, had tugged him down for a distracting kiss, his hips shifting under Arthur, brushing their cocks together and expertly sidetracking Arthur into another round of sex.

Arthur clutched the poker chip into his fist until the edges threatened to cut into his fingers. It had been waiting at his latest mail drop, tidily packaged in a small box, wrapped in a cocktail napkin from the hotel they'd stayed in the first time they'd gone to Las Vegas together.

That was when he realized he hadn't heard from Eames in…too long.

He’d frantically called off the job he was about to start in Morocco and started his search. He’d found nothing, no trace of Eames after a job gone bad in Rio months ago, and a hasty flight to Argentina. He'd already known about those details, had already hunted down the treasonous bastard of a double-crossing architect who’d sold Eames’ team out, had taken care of the matter, had left word for Eames at his usual contact points. Had expected Eames to lay low for awhile, if for no other reason than offended pride at being betrayed.

But he’d heard nothing. Nor had anyone else. And he'd been mildly worried, but hadn't yet reached a panic point.

Until the poker chip had arrived in the mail. And an even more frantic search had still turned up _nothing_.

And now, weeks later, he was in Toronto, in a city he'd never visited with Eames, that held no direct memories of him, though Arthur couldn't seem to escape them anyway. Flashes of his mischievous grin, his wry smile, the flicker of that scarred eyebrow, the slight inviting curve of his lips just before he began to take off his clothing, the sidelong amused looks, the narrowing of his eyes right before he pounced. His strong hands, as gentle or rough as Arthur needed, his soft laugh, the growl in his voice as he leaned in to suggestively molest Arthur's ear, his sleepy drawl after sex, the way he had always liked to wrap around Arthur from behind and scrape his teeth over the nape of Arthur's neck…

Arthur shuddered, forcing his eyes open again and staring down at the rainy street below.

 _Eames_.

During the last week or so, Arthur had started seeing him out of the corner of his eye in traffic, thought he caught the familiar features on someone in line at the coffee shop, heard his chuckle from another aisle in a store. He wanted, so badly it made him stop breathing, to use the PASIV to go under and see him, just one more time, never mind that it wouldn't _be_ him, wouldn't be real…

He didn't. He kept the PASIV locked in the hotel room safe, giving him just enough of a delay to keep it out of his hands.

He didn't lock away his guns, though he kept them out of sight, if still close to hand. Arthur had his own enemies, after all.

He’d come to Toronto to try to avoid creating a haunt, a shade of Eames that would linger dangerously in his dreams. It hadn't worked. Several days ago, Arthur had seen a flash of a muscular tattooed arm on a train and had turned, too quickly, to grab desperately at the man. It hadn't been Eames, of course, and Arthur had apologized, blushing in embarrassment, as the man leered at him. Arthur had gotten off at the next stop only to hear a British man grumbling to his friend about the poor quality of tea to be found in Canada and Arthur had fled back to his silent hotel room.

When he went out now, he didn't look at faces, for fear of seeing his ghost. He wore headphones so the echo of a voice couldn't reach him. He made himself less aware of his surroundings, no matter how dangerous that was physically for a man with enemies, in an effort to save his sanity.

He didn't dare use the PASIV, enter the realm that Eames had always called the twilight kingdom, where his ghost would be a heart-rending reality. But he didn't sleep much topside; if he didn't use Somnacin, he'd start dreaming naturally again, and he feared his dreams, feared the one he knew he'd meet there. As little control as he would have over his projections when he went under, he'd have _no_ control over natural dreams.

The rain started to come down even more heavily, and Arthur wearily watched the pedestrian traffic reflect that. He couldn't really see faces from this far away, this far above the street, but body language came across clearly. The umbrellas travelled faster, the dashers took shelter for longer and longer periods, and the stoic stompers hunched even more as they trudged along.

And one figure strode down the middle of a sidewalk as if it were the most delightful of sunny days. No hat, no umbrella, posture straight and easy, glancing at the buildings as he passed them. He entered the building across the street, yet another downtown hotel.

Arthur’s throat closed and, for the first time since he'd received the poker chip in the mail, his eyes grew wet. The man had walked like Eames, moved like him. So much like him that for a moment he'd been fooled. His mind was doing it again - tricking his senses into seeing Eames, however impossible, one last time.

He stayed at the window, hunched and kneeling, arms folded tightly against his stomach, watching the street, refusing to indulge the threatened tears.

He was exhausted, nearly dozing, against the window, lack of sleep beginning to catch up to him, when the man emerged from the hotel across the street and looked up at Arthur's hotel. He stood on the sidewalk, forcing the scurrying foot traffic to part around him, and put his hands on his hips. Arthur could see that his wet shirt was a horrible mustard color with some bold dark pattern.

Arthur shut his eyes against the sight. Too similar. Too much. His heart stuttered in his chest, every joint locking in a moment of aching want. He'd been chasing a ghost for too long, then running from it. He was worn down, hating the sharp slice of desperate hope every time it opened a fresh wound. He was bleeding out, mentally; less and less of him every time he turned to catch a face, searched around a corner for a voice, stopped in his tracks at the faint hint of a cologne.

After awhile he opened his eyes, lashes wet, his vision blurred, but there was definitely no patterned mustard shirt in view.

 _Stop this_.

Arthur sucked in a breath and wearily pushed himself to his feet, unable to stop himself, though he felt the edges of the fresh cut inside his mind curling open, blood beginning to seep out. He stared down at the street one more time and saw the ghost emerge from Arthur's hotel. He looked both ways before walking toward the next intersection.

Arthur turned away from the window and headed for the elevator, bleeding inside, exhaustedly resentful of his uncontrollable impulse to double check what he'd seen.

The wet mustard shirt with the dark blue and purple paisley pattern was waiting at a pedestrian crossing two streets over.

Arthur stood several paces behind it in the heavy rain, soaked through already, and stared at the unmistakable hint of tattooed skin underneath the wet fabric. The broad shoulders slumped briefly and the head dropped with a sigh, then the shoulders squared up again, clearly resolute. The wrist flicked up to present a watch and then dropped, displaying a crooked little finger. The other hand came up to rake back wet hair and the head turned to the side to glance down the street. The scarred eyebrow quirked in irritation.

Eames, Arthur tried to say. No sound left his mouth. Eames.

He fumbled the poker chip out of his pocket and stepped forward, stopping beside the ghost to silently offer the chip. He raised his gaze to the mouth, then slowly, so slowly, to the eyes, trembling.

“Arthur,” Eames breathed. “I am so sorry…”

Arthur blinked as the poker chip was tugged out of his grasp, then leaned into Eames, fingers gripping holds in Eames’ wet shirt as his knees threatened to give out. Eames wrapped around him, supporting him, embracing him, and Arthur let a harsh and ugly noise slip past the constriction in his throat as he shuddered in reaction.

Strong arms held him tightly, fighting gravity for him, for them both, and he felt warm breath stirring the wet hair behind his ear.

“I will never stop apologizing,” Eames whispered roughly into Arthur’s ear. “I will spend the rest of our lives making up for this, love.”

Arthur nodded, inhaling raggedly, the wet smell of Eames riding a heady wave of dizziness that made his head ache. He wanted to lick Eames’ skin, wanted to bite great jagged tears into him, wanted Eames shoved deep inside him, filling him until Arthur was _sure_ he existed.

They were moving, Eames walking with them while Arthur clung, still dizzy, to him. Then he felt a wall against his back, and Eames was turning his face up and then Eames’ mouth was touching him, kissing him, hot over his mouth and Arthur opened to him with a moan, fingers still wrapped in Eames’ shirt helplessly, rain pouring over them both.

Eames was murmuring words into Arthur's mouth, his hands pulling Arthur's shirt out of his trousers and sliding underneath to wrap around his waist, against his bare skin, and then Eames pulled away a little to breathe and Arthur was licking at his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, and if there was a faint taste of salt to the wetness there, Arthur certainly wouldn't have been able to tell which of them was the source, if not both.

Eames cupped Arthur's face in his hands, staring at him hungrily. Arthur heaved for breath and glanced at him with a wince, avoiding his eyes, but searching his face. Eames had deep shadows under his eyes, and a new scar cutting from his temple into his hairline. Arthur tried to reach up to touch it, but couldn't get his fingers to release the fabric of Eames’ hideous shirt.

“Arthur. Arthur, love,” Eames said softly. “Where's your totem?”

Arthur blinked, thought about reaching for his pocket, but only ended up tugging helplessly on Eames’ shirt. He didn't want to know if this wasn't reality.

“Oh Arthur. I've fucked this up beyond all recognition, haven't I?” Eames touched his forehead to Arthur's for a moment, then gently touched Arthur's hands, detaching one and pushing it towards the pocket where Arthur always kept his totem. “Check it, love. Be sure.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep shaky breath, then forced himself to stand tall and let go of Eames, turning away to pull out his loaded die and drop it into one hand. Four. Four again. And again. And again. And again. Eames wrapped around him from behind, lightly scraping his teeth across the nape of Arthur's neck, and Arthur made a helpless ragged noise as he dropped his totem back into his pocket.

Eames shifted to nuzzle at the sensitive spot at the corner of his jaw as he pulled Arthur back against him and then pushed them both forward into the wall, Arthur's hands automatically coming up to brace. Eames laid his strong hands over Arthur's and leaned against him, warm and solid and _there_ and Arthur was suddenly heaving for breath as his throat closed again.

“It was the worst mess of circumstances, love,” Eames murmured into Arthur's jaw. “It's still not exactly safe, but I couldn't wait any longer.”

Arthur pressed his hips back against Eames, letting his head fall back against Eames’ shoulder, rocking a little as he let the rain fall on his face.

“Arthur, darling,” Eames low voice took on a deeply worried tone. “You haven't said anything yet.”

Arthur took in a deep breath that caught, coughed, tried again. He waited to try and speak until he was able to draw three deep breaths in a row. It'd been some days since he'd spoken.

“I think,” he rasped, and took another breath, “that after I murder you, I'll have you stuffed and mounted. Erect. So at least you'll be of use.”

Eames laughed until he choked, holding Arthur against the wall as he shook behind him. Arthur wanted him so badly he ached with it, but he waited until Eames was down to a rough giggle before he reached back between them and gripped Eames’ cock through his wet trousers.

Eames inhaled against Arthur's throat, nodding. “Right, got it, sorry, strayed off topic…what were we discussing?”

“Eames,” Arthur grated. “Shut the hell up and fuck me right now.”

“Oh. Oh Arthur. Pet. Petal. _Darling_. On the street? In this alley, love?” One of his hands strayed over Arthur's stomach under his wet shirt and he nipped at Arthur's earlobe.

Arthur sighed, letting his eyes slip shut. “You've got no lubrication on you at all, do you?”

“Well…”

“This may very well be a first in my entire experience of you.”

“In my defense…”

Arthur shook his head slightly and Eames shut up. Surprisingly, Arthur only had to wait for a count of five before Eames’ hand was slyly slipping down his wet stomach to work at the button of Arthur's trousers.

Arthur shook his head slightly again and Eames made a small disappointed noise. “Arrthurrrrr,” he whined quietly.

“Not your hand, you bastard. You come back from the dead, _without lube_ , you better fucking well be on your knees before I turn around.”

Arthur felt him slide down, his hands reaching around to grip the front of Arthur's thighs, his face pressed to the outside of Arthur's hip.

“Nobody had heard from _you_ in three weeks,” Eames said softly. “After your all-out search for me turned up nothing, you dropped all contact. I've been trying to find you, to get word to you. I was afraid...”

Arthur turned, put his back to the wall, and reached down to touch Eames’ lush mouth. Eames looked up at him, blinked rainwater out of his eyes, and opened his mouth to lick at Arthur's fingertips. Arthur's cock twitched in his trousers, drawing Eames’ attention and prompting a roguish quirk of his lips before he began working Arthur's trousers open, rubbing his cheek on the wet material and kissing at the hard outline beneath.

Arthur watched him ravenously, his fingers stroking though Eames’ hair as Eames carefully worked him free of his trousers and underwear, cradling Arthur's cock in his hands and softly kissing along the length.

“Eames,” Arthur breathed.

Eames looked up at him and Arthur fought not to turn his gaze away, fought to meet those changeable eyes. Eames held his gaze, regret and determination flickering there, and then the outside corners of his eyes crinkled with devilry, and he opened his mouth and slid down over Arthur, closing his eyes only when his lips settled at the base of Arthur's cock, throat working around him.

Arthur's breath was punched out of him and he leaned over Eames, his hands pressed onto the tops of his shoulders for support.

Eames pulled off and breathed in, looking up at Arthur with a wicked smile curling his lips, then went down on him again, all the way. He'd always liked to tease Arthur about his four-word vocabulary during blowjobs - as Eames stated it, primarily consisting of combinations of ‘god,’ ‘Eames,’ ‘fuck,’ and ‘yes,’ with an occasional ‘oh’ thrown in just for spice.

Arthur moaned his name and Eames flicked that wicked glance up at him again, tapping his left hand against Arthur's thigh and folding down all the fingers but one.

Arthur huffed a helpless laugh. “Eames…”

The eyes crinkled again and he tapped his hand again, only one finger straight.

“Fuck, Eames…”

Tap of the hand and two fingers now lay straight against his leg, the glance up now sparkling with delight.

Arthur laughed helplessly, lost control of it, and slid down the wall shaking and giggling to land on his knees in the wet alley, reaching for Eames and holding on tightly, burying his face on Eames’ shoulder as he shuddered against him.

“Oh Arthur. My poor Arthur,” Eames whispered softly, holding him almost too tightly to breathe.

“Need you,” Arthur moaned into his wet skin. “Need this, need something…”

Eames slid his hand between them and wrapped around Arthur's cock firmly. He'd softened somewhat with the reaction, but Eames’ familiar and well-practiced movements had him hard again almost painfully fast. Arthur groaned, hips twitching in uncontrollable little convulsive thrusts as Eames held him tightly against his body and worked his hand fiercely; almost painful but never quite crossing that line, letting Arthur hold onto to him like a drowning man, whispering throaty reassurances into Arthur's ear, his lips brushing the sensitive spots and using his tongue-tip to lightly lick up rain drops. It was exactly what Arthur needed, rough and fast, gentle around the edges but ultimately merciless in how Eames held him and dragged an orgasm out of him, letting Arthur do nothing but cling to him, overwhelmed.

Eventually Arthur blinked and lifted his head from Eames’ shoulder. They were still kneeling in the alley, Eames was still holding him tightly and the rain was coming down even harder.

“Eames.” He breathed the name, relaxed for the first time in a thousand years.

“Arthur.” Eames was obviously trying for a light, even tone, almost joking, but the roughness underneath it, and the grip he had on Arthur’s shoulder and hip, shouted otherwise. And Arthur was suddenly aware of Eames’ arousal pressed to his stomach.

A faint smile crossed Arthur’s mouth and he shifted, pressing and rubbing sideways a little, rewarded by an agitated inhale.

“Oh god, _Arthur_.” Eames slid his hands down to cup Arthur's backside, pulling their hips tightly together.

“Mmmm,” Arthur responded, brushing Eames’ ear. “No.”

“Mmm, Arthur, I…what?”

Arthur leaned back a little, smiling at Eames with dimples on full display. “I said no.”

A baffled expression crossed Eames’ face, tangling with a rising desperation. “Darling…”

Arthur held his face in his hands, leaning in to brush the lightest of kisses across the wet lips, licking a few stray drops of rain away, before pushing awkwardly to his feet. He leaned against the wall to tuck himself away neatly in his trousers and held out a hand to Eames, still on his knees and staring up at Arthur with bewilderment.

“Eames, get to your feet right fucking now. You do _not_ get to come in this alley. You do not get to come at all until we are dry, naked, in a bed, and you are inside me, _with_ , I might add, the proper application of lubricant. Do I need to be clearer?”

Eames’ smile began at one corner of his mouth and spread across to show his teeth, leaving him grinning up at Arthur so hard his eyes were nearly closed with it. “Yeah? I mean, nah, you don't need to be clearer…fuck, Arthur, where the fuck is your fucking hotel?” He shoved himself to his feet, taking Arthur's hand and pulling him in for a fierce hug before heading back towards the street.

Arthur's heart flipped painfully in his chest, but he kept hold of Eames’ hand, tugging him in the right direction and blinking raindrops out of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I thought at first this was just going to be a one-shot. I also set out to just write a bit of wet porn, and ended up with an angsty love song, so that tells you how much control I actually have over the inside of my head. 
> 
> But damn if the lads aren't knocking on the inside of my head and demanding more. Pushy bastards, aren't they?


End file.
